


when i'm away

by wanderlustings



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: 3x23, F/M, Gen, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:18:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6647815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustings/pseuds/wanderlustings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake, Amy, and time spent apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. before

It’s funny how something as insignificant as a phone call can ruin your entire day/week/month/year/life.

One moment, Jake’s drinking with his friends, celebrating the end of Figgis’ operation. The next, his life is being threatened by Figgis himself.

“Later, dawg,” Figgis says, after casually threatening to murder Jake and his captain.

The line goes dead. Jake puts down his phone, his head spinning. He meets eyes with Amy, and he can tell she’s worried – somehow she already knows something is horribly wrong. He tries not to think about what this means for him and his friends, for him and Amy. He wishes he could go back to that tiny sliver of time, just a minute ago, when the future seemed full of excitement and promise. He wants to live inside that moment forever.

But this is his reality now. And it’s not only his life that’s at stake.

Jake sucks in a breath and calls for Captain Holt.

 

* * *

 

Amy's on a high. The Nine-Nine just took down an entire criminal operation, Jake had just agreed to move in with her, and she'd put in good work during her undercover stint in Texas (which would no doubt look good on her resume). For the first time in weeks, she feels relaxed, carefree, and excited for what's to come.

Beside her, Charles lifts his glass. "Here's to taking down Figgis. To first-class airplane sundaes. And to you and Jake and your beautiful-amazing-wonderful relationship. Oh my god I'm so happy for you two, please let me make a toast at your wedding--"

" _Charles_ ," Amy says sternly, cutting him off, but she smiles a little in spite of herself. 

She clinks her drink against Charles' and glances at Jake, who's turned away from her, talking on the phone. The alcohol has loosened her up, and maybe that's why it takes longer than it should for her to realize something is wrong. Tense shoulders, slackened jaw, lack of movement -- Amy's taken enough body language seminars to know what fear looks like. And she knows Jake well enough to know when something is deeply troubling him. 

The phone call ends, and Jake turns back towards her and Charles, looking stunned. He gives her a long look, filled with worry and a hint of sadness, and Amy feels like the world is about to shift on its axis. 

_So, a lot of change around here, huh?_

 

* * *

 

As soon as Jake tells Holt what happened, he springs into action. If he feels any trepidation, he doesn’t show it. He disappears to make a couple of phone calls, then addresses the squad.

“We must head back to the precinct immediately,” Holt says. “I have called for a police escort, but I do advise all of you to be alert and cautious.”

Terry frowns. “What’s wrong, Captain?”

“We’ll explain back at the precinct. Please prepare to leave.” He turns to Jake. “Peralta, a word please.”

They walk until they’re out of earshot of the squad. Jake feels jumpy and hyperaware of every detail. Death threats tend to do that to you, he supposes.

“I’ve alerted the proper authorities and relayed the basic details of the situation,” says Holt. “The U.S. Marshals are on their way; they will take us to a secure location. You will need to further brief them on what you know.”

Jake nods, but his brain is still trying to process what Holt is saying. “Wait – Marshals? Secure location? They’re putting us into WITSEC?”

“Yes,” says Holt. “A threat against a captain and one of his detectives, from a prolific and highly dangerous criminal – that is a very serious matter indeed. I see no other option.”

Jake nods again, numbly. Holt must sense his shock, because his face softens.

“Peralta,” he says. “It will be all right. We will be well protected.”

“And our friends?” asks Jake. “Our families?”

Holt seems to deflate slightly, which makes Jake feel even worse. “I will be honest with you,” he says. “I do not know how deep this threat goes, or how much Figgis knows about our loved ones. But I’m sure the marshals will find a way to make sure everyone is safe.”

Jake’s throat feels dry. “I hope so.”

* * *

 

Saying goodbye hurts. Of course it does. 

They're surrounded by their friends and coworkers. A group of federal marshals stands nearby, ready to whisk Captain Holt and Jake away at a moment's notice. Both Holt and Jake have already said their goodbyes to the rest of the Nine-Nine. Holt stands a few feet away talking with Kevin on the phone.

Amy swallows past the lump in her throat. She'd lost Jake before, and she'd lost the captain before, but losing them both at the same time? How is she supposed to handle this?

Jake's standing in front of her, holding a small duffle bag with some of his belongings. He places a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she swears he can read her mind sometimes. "Don't worry," he reassures her. "You and Terry and Rosa and Charles are gonna do great. You're gonna catch this guy and Rosa is going to beat him to a pulp. Gina will probably stream it on Periscope."

Amy smiles a little. "Part of me wants to help Rosa beat him up."

"I'd LOVE to see that," says Jake, grinning. "Try to pass the word along through my handler so I can tune into the live stream."

The meaning behind his words registers as soon as he finishes speaking, and his face falls. He won't be able to see any of it in person, of course. He'll be more than 1,000 miles away, cut off from his home, from his family, from his friends. From Amy. 

Amy moves a hand up Jake's arm, tracing the familiar seams of his leather jacket. "No contact," she says, and the words hang heavy in the air. "But at least Holt will be there with you. And when you come back..."

If  _he comes back_ , she thinks, and she feels her throat close up, tears springing to her eyes.

"Hey," Jake says, pulling her into a hug. "When I come back, you'd better have your old-lady needlepoint pillows and antique furniture packed up, because you're moving in ASAP."

Amy snorts into his shoulder. "Who said we're moving into  _your_  place? Mine's bigger."

"Eh, we can discuss it later." He pulls back to look at her. He's smiling but his eyes are sad. 

Amy's hand goes up to his cheek, seemingly of its own accord, and he leans into it, closing his eyes. "I miss you already," she admits. 

He sighs, a sigh so heavy she feels it in her bones. "Yeah, I already miss you too." He half-smiles. "Florida can't be worse than being undercover with the mob, though." 

Amy thinks back to the last time Jake said goodbye to her, when he'd revealed his feelings for her and left her alone, stunned, in this exact same parking lot. She remembers the six long months she spent grappling with his absence, his confession, and the constant fear that the next time she'd see him, he'd be in a coffin. She remembers the strange, overwhelming sense of longing that permeated her every waking thought. Back then, she didn't understand what that feeling really meant. 

She understands now. 

"Maybe not as bad as the mob," she says. "But Jake, there's no endpoint, you know? I can't help but wonder--"

"Stop," Jake says, cutting her off. "We can't think like that, okay? I'll be back soon, and everything will be fine. Just focus on kicking ass and filling out paperwork and all the other awesome things you do." 

They smile at each other. Jake looks like he's about to say something, but he's cut off by one of the marshals. 

"Detective Peralta, do you have all of your belongings ready? We plan to leave in about one minute."

"Yeah, I'll be right there," Jake says. 

He turns back to Amy. "I guess I should get going, then." His eyes roam over her face, like he's trying to commit her features to memory. "I love you. So much."

"I love you so much," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Jake pulls her in for one long, final kiss. 

And just like that, he's gone. Amy can’t help feeling like he took a part of her with him. 


	2. during, part i (one month in)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake and Amy struggle to adjust, 1,256 miles apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this fic was supposed to be three chapters long, but the whole "during" part turned into a whole 'nother animal. That being said, here's the first part.

Being in witness protection sucks.

Sure, like Jake had told Amy, it was better than being undercover with the mob. He's in sunny Florida, land of palm trees and retired real estate tycoons, and he knows the marshals are keeping an eye on him. Does he feel like a caged animal? Yeah, sometimes. And of course he knows there's a possibility that Figgis could've tracked him and Holt down to Florida. But Jake also knows that a) no one has ever been murdered while under witness protection, and b) he is a trained cop and can defend himself, so he doesn't think there's much cause for concern. 

But this is the part Jake didn't tell Amy: there were some things he liked about being undercover. At least then he'd had a purpose: to gather intel and gain the trust of Ianucci's men. Was it dangerous? Sure. But the part of Jake that loves Die Hard also loves the thrill of being in the middle of the action. He'd thrived on that danger, and he'd ended up pulling off one of the biggest RICO busts in recent history (it's not bragging if it's actually true, right?).

But here, in Coral Palms, Florida, Jake has no purpose. There's no mission, no puzzle for him to solve. His only job is to sit tight and trust the Nine-Nine to arrest Figgis and bring him to justice. And he trusts them, of course he does, but he hates that he can't do anything to help. Sitting still is driving him crazy. And not being there with his friends, with Amy… well, he’s trying not to dwell on that too much.

At least Holt is here, and Jake is eternally grateful for that. Holt knows and understands – he is, after all, in the exact same situation. Of course, Holt's a poor conversationalist and definitely not the best person to confide in, but Jake isn't good at talking about his feelings in the first place. So it works out just fine. 

"Morning, Cap'n," Jake says brightly as he enters Holt's kitchen. Holt has gotten into the habit of inviting him over for breakfast. Over the past couple of weeks, Jake has learned that Holt's idea of "breakfast" consists of plain oatmeal, plain granola bars, plain toast, and milk, so he's compensated by bringing a grocery bag full of condiments every time. (Holt gives Jake silent, judgmental looks every time he puts sprinkles on his toast, but whatever. It's part of Jake’s healthy, balanced diet.)

"I believe we agreed that you will no longer refer to me as captain, or ‘Cap’n,’ for that matter, even when we are in private," Holt says, briefly glancing up from his newspaper. "Although both of our houses have been swept and are free of surveillance devices, it is important that we get into the habit of referring to each other by our new names."

"Right. New names," Jake says, dumping a spoonful of chocolate-flavored Nesquik into his milk.

Jake had a number of interesting backstories and identities ready to go a moment’s notice. He’d tried to sell the marshals on the idea of Josh Palmer, a successful tech entrepreneur who had sold off his business at age 30, donated his fortune to charity, and was now living a quiet, peaceful life in the Florida suburbs. "Like Mark Zuckerberg, except more hipster," Jake had suggested.                                                

Instead, Jake was given the identity of Larry Sherbert, a horribly boring and average thirty-something who had moved from Ohio to Florida for a change of pace. The marshals had provided Jake with all sorts of official documentation to support his new identity: a birth certificate, driver's license, social security card, and more. "We even gave you a new and improved credit score, since your actual score is terrible," his handler informed him. "You're welcome, by the way."

Captain Holt was now Gregory "Greg" Stickney, an accountant who had grown tired of the harsh Midwestern winters. He was an old family friend of the Sherberts, a detail added in to explain the pre-existing familiarity between Jake and Holt. The two just happened to move into neighboring houses around the same time – what a coincidence! 

“So, _Greg_ ,” says Jake. “What’s up? Watched any new shows lately? Listened to any cool tunes?”

“No,” Holt replies. He seems content to leave it at that.

“Ah. Short and sweet answer. I respect that.” Jake takes a bite of his sprinkle-covered toast as Holt looks on with distaste. “Well, if there’s one good thing about being isolated from almost everything and everyone you care about, it’s that you have _so_ much free time! I’m finally all caught up on Game of Thrones! You really should give it a try, Cap—uh, I mean Greg.”

Holt turns the page in his newspaper. “While this fantasy show of yours sounds somewhat intriguing, I have my sights set on something else.”

“ _Really?_ Okay, so maybe Thrones isn’t your style. Are you more of a True Detective kind of guy? House of Cards? Or maybe—“

“What I meant is that I have my sights set on something other than television,” says Holt. “I have decided to apply for a job.”

“A… job.” For some reason, the phrase doesn’t quite register with Jake. “Like… a real job. As in, going to work every day.”

“Indeed. Are you unfamiliar with the concept of work, Larry?”

“No!” Jake exclaims. “I mean, yes, I’m familiar. I mean – whatever, forget it. But why get a job when we’re being paid a stipend?" 

“The stipend will not last forever,” Holt replies. “Its purpose is to help us settle into our new homes and assimilate into our community, at which point we are expected to find more traditional sources of income.” Holt stares at Jake over his glasses. “They did inform you that the payments would eventually cease, correct?”

“Well, yeah,” Jake admits, sheepishly. “I just figured I would deal with that whenever it happened.”

“There are other reasons why securing employment may be beneficial for the both of us,” Holt continues. “We are in a unique, open-ended situation. It may do us well to be productive and spend less time dwelling on what we cannot control.”

Jake sees something like understanding in Holt’s eyes. He’d told Jake the same thing, more or less, after Jake came back from his undercover op more than a year ago. So much had changed since then, and yet here they were, back at the same point.

Jake sighs. “I get it. It’s just… it makes it seem so much more permanent, you know?”

Holt looks very tired all of a sudden, and Jake feels foolish for being so wrapped up in his own problems. Holt left behind a life too: a husband, a nice home, an entire precinct under his command. He’d worked so hard and waited so long to become a captain, and now to have that taken away for a _second_ time – Jake can’t even imagine.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jake says. “I know it’s hard for you too.”

“It is rather difficult,” says Holt. “Nevertheless… I’m glad you are here, Larry.”

Jake can almost feel his heart grow a few sizes, like he’s the Grinch or something. “I’m glad you’re here too, Greg.”

 

* * *

 

The first month or so is the hardest for Amy. She doesn’t realize how much of her life includes Jake until he’s no longer there to fill the spaces. She feels similar to how she felt when he went undercover two years ago, but this time around, everything is magnified. Not only does Amy sit across from an empty desk, but she wakes up in an empty bed, too. Before, the pain was a dull ache, but now, it’s more of a persistent throbbing.

Amy doesn’t know how to handle this feeling of emptiness. It’s not like a breakup. At least with breakups she has the luxury of picking herself up and moving on. But this isn’t something she can move on from. This wasn’t something Jake had chosen, and it certainly wasn’t something he could prevent. There’s nothing either of them can do about it, and Amy hates that she has to just sit there and accept it. She knows, somewhere out there in Florida, that Jake feels the exact same way.

Sometimes, she thinks about breaking the “no contact” rule. She’d come pretty close to doing so when he was undercover – she knew the mob’s hangouts and the trashy dive bars they liked to frequent. If she was just in the right place in the right time, maybe…

No. Back then, Amy had nipped those dangerous thoughts in the bud. She wasn’t willing to risk his life then, and she certainly isn’t willing to do it now. But that doesn’t stop her from dreaming of reuniting with him, of leaving everything behind and running away to a place where none of their enemies can find them. Amy loves a well-thought-out plan, but something about Jake inspires a sort of recklessness in her, the kind that leaves her craving more.

She tries to channel her pain into productivity, but Jake is everywhere. When she’s investigating leads about Figgis, he’s there in the back of her mind. When she’s working on other cases, he’s there too, in the sloppily filled-out reports that she struggles to decipher. She wishes he were there so she could chide him about it, and also ask him to translate.

And when she goes home, of course she thinks about Jake, because how could she not? He’d been staying at her apartment regularly over the past couple of months, and a lot of his stuff is still lying around – toiletries, laundry, even the giant bag of sour gummy worms he’d bought not too long ago. Sometimes she tries to fool herself into thinking he’s only working a late shift and will be back soon, but the feeling never lasts for long. 

Amy hates feeling like she’s pining. She’d had a life before Jake, and she can have one while he’s gone. But after eight years of working with him and almost a year of dating him, it’s hard to remember a time he wasn’t in her life in some way, shape, or form. Even in the beginning, when she’d hated his guts, he’d at least been a constant.

She starts picking up more shifts and justifies it by explaining that she’s on a hot streak. This isn’t a lie – her numbers have gone up recently. She feels like the part of her brain that’s good at sniffing out patterns is on a roll. 

Terry, who is acting captain of the precinct for the time being, takes her aside at the end of one of her double shifts. He hasn’t changed anything about Holt’s office – the rainbow flag and the picture of Cheddar are still where they used to be, as if Holt has just momentarily stepped out.

“Amy,” says Terry, sitting beside her on the couch. “You’ve been working nonstop. You need to go home and get some rest.”

“It’s okay, Sarge, I’m fi—“ Amy cuts herself off as she lets out a huge yawn. “Everything’s fine. I’m on a roll right now. I’m about to crack the B&E that was on 6th and…” She trails off and yawns again. 

Terry raises an eyebrow. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

“I—“ Amy frowns. She actually doesn’t remember when or if she went home last night. She looks down at her wrinkled pantsuit, the same one she was wearing when she got in yesterday. “Oh.”

“Exactly,” says Terry. “You’re on a streak right now, and that’s great, but don’t overwork yourself to the point of exhaustion.” He pauses. “You know Captain Holt would give you the same advice.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I know.”

Being separated from Jake affects her more on a personal level, but Amy hasn’t forgotten about Holt. It’s obvious that the rest of the precinct feels his absence too. Holt had that kind of steady authoritative presence that made people _want_ to be better. Jake, Rosa and Gina could tease her about being a teacher’s pet all they wanted, but Holt had affected them too – Jake started wearing a tie, Rosa had toned down her scare tactics, and Gina had even followed Holt to the NYPD PR office.

Amy misses Holt’s mentorship, and she feels like Terry does, too. Holt had a great calming effect on both of them. She meets Terry’s eyes, and she can tell he understands her train of thought. “I wish they were here too,” he says.

“I know they haven’t been gone for that long,” Amy says. “But I just hate not knowing when they’re coming back. _If_ they’re coming back. What if twenty years pass—“

“ _Hey_ ,” Terry says. “I highly doubt it’ll take us twenty years to track down Figgis. We’re working on it. The Feds – well, those who weren’t part of his operation to begin with – are working on it, too. We’re going to find him, Amy. And then we can bring Holt and Jake back home." 

Amy suddenly feels overwhelmed with feeling. Maybe all she needed was reassurances. She reaches over and gives Terry a hug. “Thanks, Sarge.”

He hugs her back. “Anytime.”


	3. during, part ii (three months in)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this a year ago and hoped to have it done before season 4 premiered, but clearly that did not happen. Whoops. So now this story is more of an AU, but I've changed some elements to make it more canon-compliant.

Jake and Holt – or Larry and Greg – have fallen into a routine lately.

They don’t get to eat breakfast together anymore, which is almost a relief to Jake, since there’s only so much plain oatmeal he can handle. Holt has taken an accounting job at the city hall – he’s always been good with numbers. Jake has taken an IT job with the city library. If he can work with the mob’s computers, he can certainly handle a public library’s computers.

Every other night or so, Jake will show up at Holt’s with some beer, or Holt will show up at Jake’s with a bottle of wine. They drink together on the back porch, listening to the hum of cicadas, talking about everything and nothing all at once.

Once Jake came to terms with his new living situation, dealing with day-to-day tasks became easier. He’s gotten used to signing receipts with his fake name, knows the fastest way to get to the grocery store, and has even made a few acquaintances. Most of the people in the neighborhood are older, retired couples who have been enamored with Jake/Larry ever since he brought a homemade casserole to the neighborhood barbecue. (Even Holt was surprised by that one, and Jake would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased with himself. Out of his friends and family, only his mom, Gina, and Amy know that he’s a decent cook. Now he can add Holt to that list.)

He tries not to think about Amy a lot, because it hurts too much. But thoughts of her creep in when he’s least expecting it, and it feels like a shot to the heart. Sometimes he’ll get a waft of the perfume Amy uses, or he’ll see a girl with a shiny dark ponytail, and it makes him feel off-kilter for the rest of the day. Even going to work is tough – the library is the perfect mix of modern and elegant, with high, vaulted ceilings and large windows overlooking a sea of greenery. Jake knows Amy would go nuts for this place.

It doesn’t help that his neighbors keep trying to hook him up with their grandkids. Jake is flattered, but also kind of sad -- is he really the only viable option in this part of town? Jake politely declines every time, but when Margie from the cul-de-sac presses for details, he comes up with a story that he uses as his standard.

His girlfriend, Isabel Cortez (an inside joke only he and Holt would understand), is back in school getting her masters’ in art history. She’s currently studying abroad in Spain. He sticks to the gist of this story, fleshing it out with little details until even he can’t remember which elements are based on fact and which are complete fiction.

One day, he’s at work wondering how the hell a four-year-old managed to install five viruses onto one of the computers, when he’s approached by Candace, one of his coworkers.

Candace is tall, blonde, and whip-smart, and in another life, would’ve been exactly Jake’s type. She’s been subtly flirting with him for weeks, and Jake’s still figuring out a way to let her down easy. 

“Hey,” she says casually. “Holly and her boyfriend and I are going out to grab some drinks tonight. You want to join us?”

Holly is their other coworker at the library, and Jake’s seen her with her boyfriend before – he knows they’ll be making out in the bar bathroom after maybe three drinks tops, leaving him alone with Candace. It’s a pretty smart plan on Candace’s part.

Jake doesn’t like the double-date implications, but he’s tired as hell and has been out maybe twice total the entire time he’s been in Florida. “Sure,” he says. “I could use a drink.”

Later, at the bar, Holly and her boyfriend are going at it in the bathroom, as expected. “How do you even hang out with them?” Jake asks as he nurses his beer. “They’re like animals.”

Candace laughs. “It’s gross, I know, but Holly is one of my oldest friends. She was a lot less insufferable before she got a boyfriend. Besides, even if I wanted to ditch her, this place isn’t exactly crawling with people around my age.” She takes a delicate sip of her margarita. “Which makes me wonder… what brings a guy like you to a town like this? 

_If only you knew_ , Jake thinks. He feeds her the same story he feeds everyone else – how he was bored with his life in Ohio and wanted a change. After finding a relatively cheap house for sale, he’d relocated to Coral Palms. “And now I’m here,” Jake finishes.

“Wow,” says Candace. “That’s it? No family ties or anything?”

“Nope,” says Jake. He knows what her question is leading up to – he’s done his fair share of interrogations, after all – and adds, “My girlfriend was going to come with me, but then she got accepted to a master’s program in Spain.”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” says Candace. She leans back in her seat, obviously disappointed, but recovers quickly. “I’ve always wanted to go to Spain, though. Sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“That’s how she saw it too,” Jake says. “I wasn’t going to hold her back. She’s having a great time.”

Something in his tone catches Candace’s attention, because her gaze turns sympathetic. “Do you miss her?” she asks.

“Yeah, I do. I miss her so much.” Jake takes a long swig of his beer. It’s the first truthful thing he’s said all night.

 

* * *

 

Amy dreams a lot more than she used to. Sometimes they’re nightmares riddled with gunshots and blood and screams, and she wakes up cold and clammy, the image of Figgis leering over Jake’s still body seared into her brain. Other times the dreams are more pleasant, filled with laughter and warm embraces and orange soda. For a few blissful seconds after she awakens, Amy can almost feel Jake’s warmth and smell his skin like he’s right there beside her. But then the moment passes, and she comes crashing back down to reality.

At least work has been keeping her occupied. Being down one detective means a heavier caseload for everyone else. Amy’s finishing a report on a particularly rough double homicide when Rosa plops down in the chair beside her desk. “You, me, and Gina are having drinks tonight at Shaw’s,” she says without preamble.

Amy sighs. “I don’t know, Rosa. I’m pretty tired. I think I’m just going to head back home.”

“Come on, Amy,” Rosa presses. “When’s the last time you actually went out and had fun?”

“Oh please.” Gina chimes in from across the bullpen. “Amy has no concept of fun.”

“I have _fun_ ,” Amy says indignantly. “I took an online scrapbooking webinar last weekend.”

Rosa raises an eyebrow. Gina snorts. “You’re just proving my point, boo,” she says, tapping away at her phone screen.

“Okay, fine,” Amy relents. “Shaw’s it is.”

Three hours later, Amy, Rosa, and Gina are tucked into their usual corner booth, nursing their drinks. Amy sips gingerly at her Manhattan, smirking as Rosa and Gina bicker over the relative hotness of the newest bartender.

“He’s got nice hands,” says Gina, watching the bartender shake a martini with thinly veiled interest. “That’s a plus.”

“Are you ignoring the fact that he’s a white guy with dreads?” asks Rosa, taking a swig of her beer. “Instant deal-breaker.”

Gina squints. “Oh shit, he does have dreads. I guess I’m just desensitized to it.” She waggles her eyebrows at Amy. “Jake went through a reggae phase in high school, you know.”

“Oh god,” Amy groans. “Please don’t tell me he had dreads.”

“He did for about a week, then realized it was something he should not be doing,” says Gina. She slides her phone across the table. “Check out his junior yearbook pic.”

Amy nearly chokes on her drink. “And I thought just the nose ring was bad.”

“Trust me, if you knew him back then, you wouldn’t touch that with a ten foot pole.”

Rosa snorts. “He wasn’t much better in the academy, either. I played wingman for him all the time. Lamest pickup lines ever, and yet girls bought it. I still don’t understand.”

Amy laughs and instinctively glances to her left, half-expecting to see an offended Jake ready to defend himself. Obviously, he isn’t there, but they’ve left his usual spot open out of habit.

Amy’s laughter dies in her throat, and the group falls into subdued silence, lost in memories.

Rosa clears her throat. “We know it sucks. But you’re not the only one missing someone.”

There’s a barely concealed tremor to Rosa’s voice, and Amy thinks about how Pimento had left without warning too. “Rosa,” says Amy, “if you ever want to talk about it—“

“I’d rather just deal with it by hurling my throwing stars at Figgis’ mugshot,” says Rosa. But when she glances sideways at Amy, her gaze is softer than usual. “Thanks, though.”

Gina’s looking down, quietly stirring the contents of her drink. When she meets their eyes, there’s a quiet intensity in her expression. “To bringing our boys home,” she says, lifting her glass.

“Cheers,” says Amy. She downs the last bit of her drink, feeling the alcohol burn her throat.


End file.
